


one thing forever true

by thunderstorm (ConsultingTimelordWizard)



Category: The Magicians (TV), The Magicians - Lev Grossman
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-13
Updated: 2019-12-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,469
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21777028
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ConsultingTimelordWizard/pseuds/thunderstorm
Summary: For years, he tried to find another way to break the curse the Monster cast, but it was of no use. Castle Whitespire became forgotten to Fillory, and with it went the memory of High King Eliot and his court. He resigned himself to his fate, because truly…Who could ever learn to love a beast?(it's a beauty and the beast au)
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh, William "Penny" Adiyodi/Kady Orloff-Diaz
Comments: 2
Kudos: 14





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [missingstars (xsaturated)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/xsaturated/gifts).



> because we all need a beauty and the beast au! i just started the magicians and am halfway through season 2, but i couldn't not write something for quentin and eliot (yes i spoiled it for myself and yes, i'm constantly crying bc of it). i'm writing this for one of my best friends as a christmas gift, but i'm an impatient bitch so i'll be posting it in chapters here up until christmas (maybe a bit after depending how much i write).
> 
> merry christmas nic! have some beauty and the beast queliot, because it's what we all deserve. to everyone else, i hope you enjoy it as much as i'm enjoying writing it!

_ Once upon a time, in a faraway land, _

_ A young Prince lived in a shining castle. _

_ Although he had everything his heart desired, _

_ The Prince was spoiled, selfish, and unkind… _

  
  


The sun set low behind the halls of Castle Whitespire in the land of Fillory, yet for those of wealthier means, the evening was only beginning. Closer to the palace walls music could be heard by any who passed by, faint as it may have been, and a constant stream of society’s most important patrons weaved in and out of the crowded gates, a warm glow emitting from the entrance above them. Closer still was the ornate entryway, leading up a red velvet staircase to the court marshal, who announced each guest’s name loudly for the room to hear. Another set of stairs led down to the grand ballroom: an elegantly-styled open space lined from floor to ceiling with gold accents, stained glass windows circling the room and reflecting the last of the fading sun to the floor in reds, greens, and blues. Couples waltzed around the floor in perfect synchronization with the orchestra, and laughter filled the space between the music. 

Deep within the sea of people was a particularly rambunctious crowd milling near one another, with two people being the obvious cause for the conversations: a dark-haired woman in a black lace ball gown, diamond-encrusted necklace resting against her collarbone and earlobes weighed down by a matching pair of earrings, and a tall, fair man in a gold outfit decorated with intricate patterns sewn in with a denim blue thread. A crown rested at the top of his head, just at his forehead, and when he laughed he threw his head back dramatically, stepping closer to his companion and further from his crowd of admirers. 

High King Eliot Waugh was a force to be reckoned with. He, along with his closest friend and constant companion Lady Margo Hanson, was known for the extravagant parties held on a biweekly basis. He got involved in the planning personally to make sure everything went off without a hitch, and taste-tested every drink the kitchens would serve to make sure they were of the finest quality. He could not have a party anything less than worthy of a High King, and would go to any lengths necessary to make sure he never got to that point. In his quest to be seen as the absolute best, the High King would lash out at those he considered his inferiors, a foul mood settling and sending his workers scattering for the winds. His near-sightedness expanded further to the people of Fillory, who struggled and starved in the cold winters while he and his compatriots lavished on the wealth within Whitespire’s walls. 

On that very evening, in the midst of the glitz and glamor of another successful soiree, a man in a muddy, ragged cloak made his way into Whitespire and sought out the High King personally. He begged and pleaded with the High King to care for his people, to help them survive the coming winter, but High King Eliot turned his nose up at the man and called for the guards to remove him from the ballroom. The peasant began to laugh, and laugh, and laugh some more, and when he pulled back the hood of his dirty cloak he revealed himself to be the magician known only as the Monster, red eyes staring down at the people surrounding the man in front of him.

High King Eliot fell to his knees and begged for forgiveness, but the Monster would not hear him, claiming that his vanity and disregard for others would kill all of Fillory long before his own magic could. With a wave of his hand, the High King began to change before everyone’s eyes, teeth growing larger and hair growing longer; his back arched unnaturally and his fingernails turned to claws while two spiraling horns sprouted from the top of his head. As his friends and staff began to suffer similar fates, the Monster told High King Eliot that the curse he bestowed would be broken when he learned the value of those around him. 

Then, with a wicked twist of a smile, he also said that High King Eliot would need to learn how to love, and be loved in return. A miniature peach tree appeared before him; when the final fruit fell from its branches, the curse would become permanent, and he would forever remain the monster he showed himself to be. With that, the Monster left with a cackle, the roar of High King Eliot’s fury following in his wake.

For years, he tried to find another way to break the curse the Monster cast, but it was of no use. Castle Whitespire became forgotten to Fillory, and with it went the memory of High King Eliot and his court. He resigned himself to his fate, because truly…

Who could ever learn to love a beast?


	2. Chapter One

_Little town_

_It's a quiet village_

_Every day_

_Like the one before_

_Little town_

_Full of little people_

_Waking up to say…_

The rising sun highlighted the silhouette of Brakebills, reds and yellows and oranges casting out across the sky and illuminating the slowly rising townsfolk along its cobble roads. The aroma of fresh bread wafted through the open window of the bakery, covering the smell of manure that drifted from the farms on the outskirts of the village and drawing in workers going to start another day. The sound of a baby wailing punctured the silence that had previously encompassed the town, and soon the _clops_ of horses’ hooves against the pathway entered the din with the quiet beginning of conversation, punctuated by poorly-repaired carriage wheels groaning in protest against the stones they rolled over.

Beyond the edge of Brakebills were farmers that had long since been awake, pigs snorting and cows mooing and chickens clucking while their owners tended the crops. Among the pastures was a small home only referred to as the Cottage; a simple building that had obviously been repaired several times over the course of the past few years but still retained the charm that drew people toward it. This worked out particularly well for the residents of the Cottage—or, rather, for one of its residents, as she was an aspiring artist who needed all the foot traffic she could get. Her dear friend who lived with her (and _that_ had caused quite the scandal, having a man and a woman who were unmarried living with one another) was a tinkerer yet a social recluse, and the townsfolk of Brakebills have been caught staring at him more than once or twice when gossip was scarce.

The recluse in question, a handsome young man named Quentin Coldwater, walked toward town with a basket in one hand and a book in the other, ready as he could ever be for yet another day.

Quentin wasn’t ignorant to the nature of the townsfolk. He knew that gossip was traded as often as coin was for goods and services, and he knew that he and Julia Wicker were normally at the top of that gossip list. The two of them were considered _odd_ to those who didn’t believe art was a viable income, or who didn’t understand why he would sooner curl up with a book than live up to their standard of productivity. He hated to admit that Julia’s art didn’t pay for everything like she hoped, but that’s where his repair skills came in handy—though he was better at minor mending than big fixes. The two of them made do and that was enough for them.

That didn’t mean he liked to be the talk of the town, though.

He could hear the whispers as he stepped onto the main road and headed for the shops, keeping his gaze ahead and tucking his hair behind his ear when it fell into his face. Just ahead was the baker that he’d never learned the name of, a fact that he only felt mildly guilty over, and when they made eye contact the baker waved him over and grabbed his normal purchase of bread rolls and a few loaves from his pile.

“Good morning, Quentin,” the baker said, and Quentin gave him a nervous smile. 

“Good morning. Early start to the day?”

“Always, always. Where are you off to today?” 

Quentin’s smile became more genuine, and the two exchanged money for the bread as he responded, “Back to Chatwin’s. I’ve got a book that I need to return, and I was thinking about taking out one I read a few weeks ago, but—“

“Ah, yes, very interesting,” the baker interrupted, attention dropping from their small talk so he could yell for his wife to hurry with the baguettes. Quentin sighed and continued along the road, taking one of the rolls and biting into it for his breakfast. 

Brakebills, Quentin had learned soon after he and Julia arrived there, was very monotonous, and everything he’d thought as whimsical about the town at the beginning was now dull and uninteresting. He passed the same people, at the same locations, at the same time, whenever he made his way into town to run some errands, and each building always had the same customers clustered in and around it. He would bet money that they spread similar gossip among one another, no matter the smiles they plastered onto their faces for the rest of the world. As if like clockwork, a window overhead opened up, and he nimbly dodged out of the way as a woman emptied out her waste bucket into the streets with barely a word of warning to those below. To his right, a man who insisted on wearing a top hat no matter the occasion grumbled about her being piggish with her waste, and Quentin subtly mouthed along to the complaint as he passed him by. Just ahead was the tavern with its early morning drunkards, already getting started on another day of oblivion, and Quentin relaxed when he saw the _Open_ sign hanging in the window of Chatwin’s Bookstore.

Ducking into the bookstore was like returning home, and he didn’t mean the Cottage. His mind went back to the small village he and Julia had grown up in when he was surrounded by the comfort of Chatwin’s Bookstore, the cozy furniture reminiscent of his father’s personal library. He had spent hours in that library, both reading and being read to, and a pang of sadness echoed in his chest as his father came to mind. It had been years since his father had passed away, but the grief was never truly gone. If only he’d noticed his illness sooner—

“Quentin! Back again so soon?”

Quentin snapped out of his thoughts once he heard his name, and a moment later a woman with red hair pinned neatly into a bun at the crown of her head emerged from the back room with a delighted, if not curious, smile on her face. Jane Chatwin, owner of the bookstore they stood in, was probably one of the few who didn’t look at him oddly for his more reserved nature, instead encouraging his love for reading by loaning out her books to him. He devoured each new story she sent his way, and the two would talk for hours when he returned about what he read and what could come next if a sequel was pending. Today, though, he was returning a book he’d already read and talked about extensively, so Quentin just nodded and held the book out to her.

“You know I read fast, Jane,” he said. “Especially when it’s a reread. Have you got anything new in stock?”

“Not since yesterday,” she replied, taking the book from him and moving to tuck it back into its proper spot on the shelves. “What did you want to read this time?”

Quentin glanced at the shelves and brightened immediately when he saw an old, familiar spine, reaching out and tugging the book out to look at. The cover was worn from use but still elegant, gold letters spelling out the name of the book and the author behind it. “This one.”

Jane looked over and raised an eyebrow. “ _The Magicians_ again? You’ve read it three times already.”

“I can’t help that it’s my favorite,” he said, holding the book to his chest. “A group of magicians attending a school to better their magic? Saving the world with the help of one another? An impossible _time travel_ romance? What’s not to love?”

Jane grinned widely and nodded. “Well, in that case, you should keep the book.”

He froze. “What? I couldn’t, it’s _your_ book—”

“And I decide what happens with it. You love it dearly, and it deserves to be loved.” She walked over to Quentin and looked him in the eye, expression firm. “You have a spark for imagination in you, Quentin, and it shines whenever you read these books. Never let anyone take that away from you.” Jane nodded to the book. “Keep it as a reminder to stay true to yourself, and enjoy it always.”

Quentin was breathless, managing a short nod before finding the words to respond. “Y-yeah, of course. Thank you, Jane. Truly.”

Her smile turned into a smirk, and she began to walk toward the back room once again. “Treat it well, Quentin. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

He waited a moment, staring at his favorite book in awe, before nodding and tucking it away into his satchel. Jane was gone before he could thank her again, so Quentin left the bookstore with the goal of heading to the Cottage and reading immediately. Unfortunately, life had a way of messing with his plans, and he had barely taken a few steps before Martin Chatwin, younger brother of Jane, was in his path with a leer in his eyes. Ever-present at his side was Josh Hoberman, a man who Quentin genuinely felt sorry for as he bent over backward to make sure Martin was satisfied with everything that happened in his life. That satisfaction, however, came with undivided attention fixed onto him, and Quentin wanted to do nothing but run as the duo made their way over to him.

“Quentin!” Martin said, a bright grin on his face. Quentin tried not to show his wince. “I wasn’t sure I’d see you today.”

“Good morning, Martin,” he muttered, taking a step away from the man and sighing as he followed suit. “If you’ll excuse me, I’m very busy right now.”

“What, running errands for that artist of yours? You could be doing so much more with your life, Quentin Coldwater. For example…” Martin tapped his chin to feign thinking, but Quentin already knew where he was going with that line of thought, and shut his eyes as it continued with, “...marrying me. How much can an _artist_ survive on, anyway?”

“You know, insulting someone’s family isn’t the best way to woo them,” he said dryly, opening his eyes again and glancing around quickly for an escape. “If you’ve only come here to insult Julia and myself, I’d appreciate it if you _didn’t_ and got out of the way.”

“Now don’t be hasty!” Josh said quickly when irritation started showing on Martin’s face. He stepped into Quentin’s path and fixed a smile onto his face, far too strained and nervous to be genuine. “Martin here just wants to get to know you, Quentin. One dinner won’t hurt, will it?” 

He glanced between Josh and Martin and suppressed a shudder, catching sight of a passing cart and steeling himself. “Well you see, I’d _love_ to, but I’m busy. Every day. Forever.” He pushed his way between the two men and hopped onto the cart, gripping the side of it and shrugging as Martin grunted his annoyance. 

“You can’t avoid me forever, Quentin Coldwater,” Martin called, and Quentin settled further onto the cart with a shake of his head. So long as he had his way, he would, in fact, avoid Martin Chatwin as long as he could. 

How he and Jane were related, Quentin had no idea. 

Luckily for him, the owner of the cart was a neighboring farmer, and he was allowed to stay until he got near the Cottage. With a coin for the man’s trouble pressed into his palm, Quentin walked into his home for the past few years and sagged against the door when it closed. The Cottage was simple, and an absolute catastrophic blend of differing styles shoved together in one main room. An ugly orange sofa was in front of the stone fireplace, which had dim embers still struggling to stay alive within it. The rug in the sitting room was threadbare but well-loved, and Quentin spent a few weeks a year making sure that it stayed in as good of a condition as he could manage. The kitchen was hardly a kitchen at all, merely a few countertops for prep work and what a neighbor’s father called a _stove_ beside them all. Julia had been fascinated by it the moment she laid eyes on it, though hardly used it because of how busy she was. A meager dining table for two was shoved against the left wall, and another, larger desk was at the back, covered in materials Quentin used to mend what people brought their way. He loved Julia, truly, but Martin had been right: there was only so much one could rely on an artist’s salary for. At least his little side business put extra money in their coin purse.

He could hear Julia’s voice coming from below, so Quentin put down his items on the table and descended into the basement, ignoring the way each step creaked under his weight. The stairs opened up to a room that was slightly smaller than the Cottage was above, but it felt much smaller due to the paintings and sculptures that filled the room from floor to ceiling. Each piece of art had a different subject matter, ranging from magic to religion to inventions that could shape the future. A few commissions were amid the piles, and Quentin wrinkled his nose when he realized one of them had been for Martin Chatwin himself. He insulted Julia’s line of work only to buy into it; what a hypocrite. 

He heard Julia again, and Quentin glanced up to see her in front of her canvas, muttering to herself as she mixed a new color on her palette. Though he could only see the back of her, he knew she was likely covered in stripes of paint all over her clothes and face, though thankfully she had half a mind to put her hair up before she started on her piece this time. The canvas she stood in front of was half-finished, and though his view was obscured he automatically placed it into her Hedge Witch collection. Quentin would recognize the insignia featured in the middle anywhere; it was her most popular collection, particularly admired by someone named Marina, though he had a suspicion that people might have thought Julia a witch herself because of the works. That never stopped her, though, so Quentin let it happen and continued to defend her whenever people decided talking badly about her was a good idea.

She finished mixing the paint and raised her paintbrush up, readying for another stroke onto the canvas, but he cleared his throat and got her attention. Julia glanced over and smiled when she saw him, setting her palette and brush aside before rushing over to him. The paint that covered her wasn’t nearly as bad as he had expected, so he considered that a small victory toward whoever had to do laundry later, though he took that victory away when she grabbed him and got paint onto him as well.

“My favorite critic,” she said fondly, tugging him toward the canvas. “It’s a little too late to change what I’ve done without scraping the thing, I know, and it’s not _finished_ , but I need your honest opinion. How is it?”

Quentin looked at it fully now, no longer blocked by Julia, and tapped his finger to his chin. There were four seven-point stars decorating a dark purple background, each star with what looked like a keyhole in the middle of it. None were lined up neatly, scattering their backdrop, but all led imperfectly to the largest star of them all, the number 50 bold in its middle. The symbol meant something to the hedge witch community, if Quentin wasn’t mistaken, but he didn’t exactly know _what_ it meant. It must have made enough sense to Julia since she kept painting them, so that was enough for him.

“What’s the 50 mean?” he asked, and Julia smiled.

“The rank a hedge witch is within their community,” she explained. “The higher the number a hedge witch has within their star, the higher they are in the hierarchy. The highest you can get is 250, but that’s rare, so I thought 50 was a good number to stop at—it shows the power the painting has.” 

Quentin stared at her uncertainly, feeling she knew perhaps _too_ much to just be a mere admirer of the subculture sometimes found in Fillory. She seemed proud, though, so he glanced back at the half-finished painting and said, “Then you’ve conveyed the power well, I think. I-I’m not into hedge witches, or whatever, so I’m going to assume you did.” 

Julia bit her lip and nodded. “Okay, but that aside… how is it?”

Now this, Quentin could do. He smiled softly and wrapped an arm around her shoulders. “It’s amazing, Jules. You always do amazing, you know that.”

Julia chuckled and leaned into him. “No I don’t, but thank you. Anyway, this is important, Q. I’m entering this piece into an art competition once I’m done with it. If I won… Quentin, we’d be set for _life_ . No more worrying about barely getting by on what my art and your tinkering brings in. We could just be done with, well, _everything_.”

“Everything?” 

“Yeah.” She sighed. “We both know the town doesn’t particularly like us, though I don’t think we’re hated at the very least. We could just get up and go where the wind takes us, maybe finally get Martin off your back.” 

Quentin snorted and shook his head, stepping back from Julia and facing her fully. She automatically turned to look up at him, brown eyes wide yet determined. “So long as you’re by my side, I’m happy Julia, but if you want to compete then you know I’ve got your back. When is it?”

“In a week. I need to finish my painting tonight and get started toward the competition by tomorrow.” She looked at the painting uncertainly, and Quentin squeezed her arms. 

“Hey. You’re going to knock it out of the park, Jules. I promise.”

“I hope you’re right.” She was quiet for a moment before recollecting herself, nudging Quentin toward the stairs. “Now shoo. I need to finish this, and I’m sure you’d rather read than watch me fret for ages.”

“Don’t forget to come up and eat,” he said, and went back up the stairs once he heard a vague confirmation from her. He quietly got to work on cooking them both lunch once he reached the kitchen, and made sure to bring a plate down for Julia to nibble on before taking his book, his lunch, and heading out toward the grassy field behind their home. 

The weather was, thankfully, beautiful, which was perfect for an impromptu picnic. He sat in the field as he ate and read, eyes moving quickly over the pages of _The Magicians_ and soaking in every detail like an old friend saying hello. The characters weren’t always the most likeable, but they were familiar, and did so much more than he could say he’d done himself. What would he give to go on a grand adventure like the protagonists in the books he read? To be the hero that the world thanked, or to do something that would make his romantic interest swoon? Anything was better than mending old knick-knacks and ignoring the whispers that fell onto his ears while he walked through town, and anything was _certainly_ better than listening to Martin Chatwin ignore his rejections in favor of trying to woo him, Josh at his side looking half-intrigued, half-apologetic. 

For someone who appeared to worship the ground Martin walked on, he didn’t seem like an awful guy. Just misguided, maybe.

Quentin sighed and finished his food, bookmarking the page of his book and standing to stare at the endless fields that rolled on to the horizon. He wanted adventure in the great, wide somewhere, but how would he get it by staying in Brakebills? Maybe, if Julia won the competition, they would have enough money to see the world like they’d dreamed when they were kids. Maybe life could be good if she made it big. These were all dreams, of course, but Quentin wanted them so badly he could taste it.

_Someday_ , he thought to himself, and gathered his things when the sun began to set. He’d make Julia’s last night at the Cottage for over a week a good one, if nothing else. That, at least, was something he _could_ do.

—— 

When the sun broke over the horizon and painted the sky a beautiful orange, Julia’s things were packed into the small carriage they owned, and Julia herself was giving Quentin a tight hug. 

“Be safe,” he said, and she smiled.

“You too, Q.”

She left without much more fanfare than that, and Quentin resigned himself to a week of solitude and general avoidance of everyone in town. Little did he know was that, a few hours later, Julia’s horse would be spooked in the forest, leaving her lost in the woods. Or, she would have been lost, if she hadn’t come across a large, abandoned castle, weeds growing up its sides and foundation far from what it probably was in its heyday. A step into the castle introduced her to wonders she never would have thought: talking, animated objects with personalities all their own, save for one fretful clock muttering something about a master. Her moment of peace was ruined when a horned _thing_ stalked up to her with a ferocious roar, and she ended up in the dungeon of the castle, shivering against the concrete with nary a bedroll or fire to combat the cold. 

The animated objects were gone, the dungeon was dark, and while Quentin Coldwater was none the wiser at the Cottage, Julia Wicker spent the first of several nights locked in a beast’s dungeon, completely and utterly alone.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on tumblr: aeducanwrites.tumblr.com


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